Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm
towering towards Heaven
, about to curse
Sway steep against them, and for years rehearse
s like a blasting
Reach at that Arrogance
which needs thy harm
And beat it down
before its sin
s grow worse.
Spend our resentment
, -- yea, disburse
Our gold in shapes of flame
, our breaths in storm
Yet, for men's sakes whom thy vast malison
Must wither innocent of enmity,
Be not withdrawn, dark arm, thy spoilure done,
Safe to the bosom of our prosperity.
But when thy spell be cast complete and whole,
May God curse thee, and cut thee from our soul!
- Wilfred Owen